


Blokes' Night In

by PoppyAlexander



Series: Sherlock Rare Pair Ficlets [13]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Blow Jobs, Ficlet, M/M, Masturbation, Multi, OT3, Originally Posted on Tumblr, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Tumblr Prompt, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-23
Updated: 2018-06-23
Packaged: 2019-05-27 04:57:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15017126
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PoppyAlexander/pseuds/PoppyAlexander
Summary: Sherlock remotely watches his men, John and Greg, on the sofa with whisky, crisps, and sport on the telly. As designed, things get heated.





	Blokes' Night In

**Author's Note:**

> Two Lovely Readers on Tumblr prompted this ficlet with suggestions about John and Greg having a "boys' night" that turns sexy, and about Sherlock watching his men together.

Sherlock insists on authenticity. He wants it to feel furtive. Seedy.  _Wrong_.

Toward this end, he has installed himself in the musty-dust-smelling upstairs bedroom, in a horrible little wooden chair at a too-small writing desk, with his laptop and no lights on. He is dressed as he likes to be for evenings at home: pyjama bottoms and one of Greg’s soft old dingy-white vests, polished cotton dressing gown loosely belted. He curls his toes against the floorboards; his heels rest on the edge of an imitation-Persian rug.

Per orders given via text message, his men are in the sitting room on the sofa, and they know they are to be watched, though they haven’t spotted the camera. They have whiskey and two bags of crisps, and sport-something on the telly. Blokes’ night in. Their version of a date. They’d be there either way, and it  always ends the same–none of them had seen the end of a match, a film, or even an episode of the Bake-Off since they’d become involved. All three are almost comically easy to distract and arouse, and so every plan they make cedes to their forever-low-boiling lust for each other.

Sherlock wants to watch. It’s interesting even though it isn’t. They sit side by side, splay-kneed, clink their glasses together in a toast “to us” and raise them to where they think the camera might be  _(Wrong!)_ , including Sherlock in it. They eat chips, not many, in no hurry. Sip the whiskey and grimace and compliment it. John moves to the literal edge of his seat for a bit, then they both throw up their hands in disgusted disappointment. Sherlock likes seeing them together, his men, when they are being mates.

“He’s really getting an eyeful,” Greg jibes, and knocks his knee against John’s as they sit side by side. “This is very erotic.”

“We’re meant to pretend he’s not watching,” John reminds. His hand finds its way to the top of Greg’s thigh, smooths and pats, comes to rest, casually possessive, affectionate rather than heated.

“Right.” Greg drains his glass. “Ready for another?” John assents and Greg pours, spins the cap onto the bottle and sets it aside. They follow the play for a bit, not talking. John churns a mouthful of whiskey to rinse clinging flakes of crisps off his back teeth, pokes at them with his tongue. Greg slumps backward, massages his own shoulder.

John can take a hint, shifts and twists to reach, and digs his fingers and thumb into the hollow of Greg’s neck, down to the tip of his shoulder, and back up, making several slow passes. Greg hums now and then, closes his eyes and lets his head roll against the back of the sofa. His hand moves with purpose along the inseam of John’s trousers, rough-stroking his thigh. Eventually John leans close to the bared throat and litters kisses there, rubs the tip of his nose against the end-of-day stubble. Catches an ear lobe between his teeth.

Sherlock shifts in his uncomfortable chair, nearing its edge, narrowing his gaze, leaning closer to the laptop screen. He watches Greg’s hand move on John’s thigh, knows intimately the feel of Greg’s hand, the shape of John’s thigh. His men are gorgeous together. Not gentle with each other. The shape of them as a pair has very different borders than when Sherlock is with them (either; or both). They have their own way. Sherlock loves to see it. Longs to see it. Another few swallows of the scotch and they’ll forget him, and then he’ll truly see. His mouth is dry so he licks his teeth.

Greg catches hold of John’s face and guides him into a kiss, rough and ready from the first. They emerge growling, baring teeth, and they finish their drinks so they can lick the last drops off each other’s tongues. They hold each other hard, gathering fistfuls of tugged-out shirt-tails and digging fingertips into scalps, breath loud and panting, kissing and kissing and falling back to groan, then back to it.

“Think he likes it so far?” Greg dirty-smiles between kisses, and he goes to work on John’s shirt buttons, half-finishes and dips his hand in to tug at the hair around John’s nipple, then flick and stroke it to make it bead up.

“What do you think he’s doing?” John challenges.

“Hand on his cock, through his trousers, just starting to get hard.” Greg’s voice is rough and John has finished what he started, sheds his shirt and tugs at Greg’s to encourage he do the same. “Licking those fat pink lips of his,” Greg adds, and John curses.

Sherlock is pleasantly shocked at how messily they kiss, and how fast they undress themselves and each other, no lingering, no poetry. Dark-smelling desire and each of them taking what he wants. His breath slips out hot between open lips, and he cradles his bollocks in his hand through his pyjamas, rolls them, teasing himself, as his prick stiffens. He watches as John shimmies down into a barely-comfortable-looking hunch, kisses up one corner of Greg’s thigh with Greg’s hand on the back of his head–-Greg’s fuck-smile is devastating and makes Sherlock curse out loud–-and steadies Greg’s half-hard cock upright, laying wet, sucking kisses up one side of his length and down the other, thumbing at his foreskin, digging in with his tonguetip. Greg’s thighs open wider; he sets one foot on the floor. Sherlock pulls at his drawstring.

“Fucking gorgeous,” Greg gusts, and John hums his thanks for the compliment, opens his throat and sinks down, then sucks hard as he draws back, each time taking Greg deeper, making him harder. He clamps his own hand on the back of Greg’s to encourage his guidance, loves to feel the weight of him pressing down and holding John in place for just an extra half-second before releasing him so John can pull, and swallow, and breathe.

Sherlock licks his palm, wets the flats of his fingers, slides down his length with a shudder. He thinks they’ve forgotten him, and that is what he wants, and it thrills him. He wants not to hurry but they are the perfect picture, and he is quickly desperate, bracing himself with one hand on the desk’s edge, eyes wide and focused as he watches them. John’s head begins to bob quickly, his cheeks sunken, sucking hard, and Greg cranks his head back against the arm of the sofa, biting his lips together. Sherlock has to stop. Pinches himself. Schools his breathing. Does not look away.

“He’ll want to see us come,” Greg huffs, and John agrees, slow nods with closed eyes as he draws slowly up and away, lets his tongue linger.

“He’s got his cock in his hand by now,” John mutters, rearranging himself more upright, makes a place for Greg to slide his backside right up onto John’s folded thighs, so their cocks are close. John leans up and their bollocks brush against each other; Greg reaches between and attends to them both. John shudders hard and his shoulders collapse in a shiver. “I love watching him wank.”

“Yeah.”

“Can I finger you?”

“Yeah.”

Sherlock watches John press one finger far back in his mouth, close his lips around, slide it out on the flat of his tongue. His own hips roll a bit, wanting to thrust into some warm, wet anyplace. He spits into his palm, looks around for something, should have thought of this most basic accoutrement but was too anxious to play the thing out. Idiot. When he looks back at the screen, his men are both stroking their cocks, bodies tangled up so they are nearly in each other’s way, and John’s hand and wrist and part of his forearm are hidden by Greg’s raised thigh, but the flex in his bicep and the movement of his shoulder is unmistakable. Greg’s face is pinched, desperate, and his mouth forms a string of grateful curses as he pulls at his cock.

“Who’ll get there first, you think?” John wonders, and grins, and the grin collapses into an ecstatic, open-mouthed gawp as he stills his hand on his prick to shift his finger inside Greg’s body, seeking the spot. “I wanna see you spurt.”

“Fuck.”

“He’s making himself come, watching you.”

“Watch–ing yuh _-you_ ,” Greg corrects, and his pace picks up, a quick pause to lick his fingers.

They forgot about it, too, Sherlock half-thinks, but he is sprawled back against the straight, awful back of the stiff chair with his legs in a wide splay, bare toes pressed against the legs of the desk, gripping, and he has pulled up Greg’s t-shirt to pinch is nipple while he wanks, and it will not be long before he is finished because his men are animals, they are perfect, they are  _men_.  _His_  men.

John’s orgasm takes him by surprise, sneaks up and bashes him on the back of the head like a thief, and he groans and stills, only his hand sliding as his cum pulses out onto the back of Greg’s wrist, and on his bollocks. Greg growls at him as he comes, causing shivering aftershocks, and John takes just a second to collect his wits enough to go on scraping and tickling inside Greg, and when he finds the spot, Greg grunts, tugs, and spurts over his own belly, all the way onto his chest. John steadies him with a hand on his knee.

Sherlock is already coming before John has truly finished, and when Greg comes Sherlock’s body responds, a quick-following second wave, and he has never come so much or so long by his own hand. He falls forward onto cradled arms on the desk, sliding the laptop out of his way, resting his head on his forearms while he heaves his breath back toward normal. His pyjama bottoms are soaked with his sweat and his cum. He doesn’t care.

They converge long minutes later, in the bath, exchanging deep kisses and smirks and damp rags.

“First time for everything,” Greg offers, and John wonders, “First of how many?”

Sherlock, still weak-kneed, insinuates himself between them, one against his chest and one against his back, kisses and caresses everywhere, for all and each of them. “Many, many,” is all he can manage. “However many it’s not enough. Millions many.”

Well pleased with a successful experiment (but they will have to find out the score from the internet in the morning, as they missed the end of the match), the three put themselves and each other to bed.


End file.
